THE LONE CABIN
Henry was deeply thankful for this shelter because he knew how badly it
was needed. He went to the single little window, which sagged half open on
hinges made of the skin of the buffalo. He pushed it back in place, and
fastened it, too, with a smaller bar, which he was lucky enough to find
lying on the floor.
"Well, Paul, we are here," he said.
As he spoke he looked keenly and anxiously at his comrade.
"Yes, Henry," Paul replied. "Here we are, and mighty glad am I. It's good
to be in a house again after that river."
Henry noticed at once that his voice was thinner and weaker than usual,
and he saw also that the color on Paul's face was high--the rest and the
little fire in the forest had not been enough. Again he was deeply
grateful for the presence of the cabin. He looked around, with inquiring
eyes that could see everything. It was dusky in the cabin with both door
and window closed, but he observed with especial pleasure, among the
abandoned articles, a small iron pot, suitable for cooking purposes, and a
large water bowl. When he summed up all, it seemed to this resourceful son
of the wilderness that Fortune had been very kind to them. Then he looked
at Paul and distinctly saw a tremor pass over his frame.
"Paul," he said, "are you cold?"
"A little," replied Paul reluctantly. It hurt his pride to confess that he
felt on the verge of physical collapse.
"Then we must have a fire, and I'm going to build it now."
"Won't it be dangerous?" asked Paul. "Won't it be seen?"
"Oh, no," replied Henry lightly. "We are alone in the forest now."
His tone was convincing to Paul, but Henry himself was aware that they
were taking great risks. Yet they must be taken.
"Now, Paul," he said cheerfully, "you keep a good watch while I bring in
deadwood. But first we will rake clean the welcoming hearth of our good
friends who departed so quickly."
Ashes and dead coals were lying in the fireplace, and he raked them
carefully to one side. Then he unbarred the door. The crisp October air
rushed into the close, confined space, and it felt very welcome to Henry,
but Paul shivered again.
"Sit down in one of those chairs and rest, Paul," he said, as he pointed
to two homemade chairs that stood by the wall. "I'll be back in a minute
or two."
Then he shut the door behind him.
"I must take the risk," he murmured. It was characteristic of Henry Ware,
that in this emergency not even a vague thought of deserting his comrade
entered his mind. And faithful as he was to Paul, Paul would have been as
faithful to him. Both meant to finish together their great errand.
Henry looked around. The settler had made but little impression upon the
surrounding forest. The trees had been cut away for a distance of fifteen
or twenty paces on every side, but the wilderness still curved in solid
array about the lone cabin, as if it would soon reclaim its own and blot
out the sole sign of man's intrusion. Everywhere the foliage glowed with
the deep reds and yellows and browns of October, and afar hung a faint
bluish haze, like an early sign of Indian summer. The slight wind among
the leaves had a soothing note, and breathed of nothing but peace. Peace
Henry Ware devoutly hoped that it would be.
His task was easy. The forest all about was littered with the fallen and
dead wood of preceding years, and in a few moments he gathered up an
armful, with which he returned to the house. Then he brought in dry
leaves, and heaped leaves and wood together in the chimney-place. He
glanced at Paul and saw him trembling. As if by chance he touched his
comrade's hand, and it felt ice-cold. But he did not depart one jot from
his cheerful manner, all his words showing confidence.
"Now, Paul," he said, "In less than a minute you'll see burning before you
the finest, warmest, glowingest and most comfortable fire in all the
West."
Paul's eyes glistened.
Henry drew forth flint and steel, and with a few strokes sent out the
vivifying spark. The dry leaves caught, a light flame formed, the wood
caught in its turn, and then the blaze, leaping high, roared up the
chimney. In a moment the hearth was glowing, and presently a bed of deep
red coals began to grow.
Paul uttered a low laugh of joy, and spread out his hands to the flames.
The red light glowed across the delicately cut but strong face of the boy,
and Henry noticed now that all his color was gone, leaving his features
white and drawn.
"Sit a little closer, Paul, a little closer," he said, still in tones of
high, good cheer. "Isn't it the most beautiful fire you ever saw?"
"Yes," said Paul, "it is. It looks mighty good, but it's curious that it
doesn't warm me more."
Henry had closed the door, and it was already very hot in the cabin; but
he decided now on another step--one that would take more time, but it must
be taken.
"Paul," he said, "I'm going out in the woods to look for something, and I
may be gone at least half an hour. Take good care of our house while I'm
away."
"All right," said Paul. But as he spoke his teeth struck together.
Henry closed the door once more, with himself on the outside. Then he
walked to the edge of the clearing, and looked back at the cabin. He had
been careful to choose the kind of wood that would give out the least
smoke, and only a thin column rose from the chimney. The wind caught it
before it rose far, and it was lost among the great trees of the
wilderness. It seemed again to Henry Ware that Fortune was kind to them.
The single look sufficed, and then, drawing his long-bladed hunting knife
from its sheath, he began to search the forest. Henry Ware had been long a
captive among the Northwestern Indians, and he had learned their lore. He
had gained from the medicine men and old squaws a knowledge of herbs, and
now he was to put it to use. He sought first for the bitter root called
Indian turnip, and after looking more than twenty minutes found it. He dug
it up with his sharp knife, and then, with another search of a quarter of
an hour, he found the leaves of wild sage, already dried in the autumn
air. A third quarter of an hour and he added to his collection two more
herbs, only the Indian names of which were known to him. Then he returned
to the house, to find that the icy torrent in Paul's blood had now become
hot.
"I can't stand this, Henry," he said. "We've got the door and window
closed and a big fire burning, and I'm just roasting hot."
"Only a little while longer," said Henry. "The truth is, Paul, you've had
a big chill, and now the fever's come on you. But I'm Dr. Ware, and I'm
going to cure you. When I was up there among the Indians, I learned their
herb remedies, and mighty good some of 'em are, too. They're particularly
strong with chills and fever, and I'm going to make you a tea that'll just
lay hold of you and drive all the fever out of your veins. What you want
to do, Paul, is to sweat, and to sweat gallons."
He spoke in rapid, cheerful tones, wishing to keep up Paul's spirits, in
which effort he succeeded, as Paul's eyes sparkled, and a gleam of humor
lighted up his face.
"Well, Dr. Ware," he said, "I'm mighty glad to know what's the matter with
me. Somehow you always feel better when you know, and I'll trust to your
tea."
He meant what he said. He knew Henry too well to doubt him. Any assertion
of his inspired him with supreme confidence.
"Now, Paul," Henry resumed, "you keep house again, and I'll find where our
unknown friend got his drinking water."
He took the iron pot that he had noticed and went forth into the forest.
It was an instinctive matter with one bred in the wilderness like Henry
Ware to go straight to the spring. The slope of the land led him, and he
found it under the lee of a little hill, near the base of a great oak.
Here a stream, six inches broad, an inch deep, but as clear as burnished
silver, flowed from beneath a stony outcrop in the soil, and then trickled
away, in a baby stream, down a little ravine. There was a strain of
primitive poetry, the love of the wild, in Henry's nature, and he paused
to admire.
He saw that human hands had scraped out at the source a little fountain,
where one might dip up pails of water, and looking down into the clear
depths he beheld his own face reflected back in every detail. It seemed to
Henry Ware, who knew and loved only the wilderness, that the cabin, with
its spring and game at its very doors, would have made a wonderfully snug
home in the forest. Had it been his own, he certainly would have
undertaken to defend it against any foe who might come.
But all these thoughts passed in a second, treading upon one another's
heels. Henry was at the fountain scarcely a moment before he had filled
the pot and was on the way back to the cabin. Then he cast in the herbs,
put it upon a bed of red coals, and soon a steam arose. He found an old,
broken-sided gourd among the abandoned utensils, and was able to dip up
with it a half dozen drinks of the powerful decoction. He induced his
comrade to swallow these one after another, although they were very
bitter, and Paul made a wry face. Then he drew from the corner the rude
bedstead of the departed settler, and made Paul lie upon it beside the
fire.
"Now go to sleep," he said, "while I watch here."
Paul was a boy of great sense, and he obeyed without question, although it
was very hot before the fire. But it was not a dry, burning heat that
seemed to be in the blood; it was a moist, heavy heat that filled the
pores. He began to feel languid and drowsy, and a singular peace stole
over him. It did not matter to him what happened. He was at rest, and
there was his faithful comrade on guard, the comrade who never failed. The
coals glowed deep red, and the sportive flames danced before him. Happy
visions passed through his brain, and then his eyes closed. The red coals
passed away and the sportive flames ceased to dance. Paul was asleep.
Henry Ware sat in silence on one of the chairs at the corner of the
hearth, and when Paul's breathing became long, deep, and regular, he saw
that he had achieved the happy result. He rose soundlessly, and put his
hand upon Paul's forehead. It came back damp. Paul was in a profuse
perspiration, and his fever was sinking rapidly. Henry knew now that it
was only a matter of time, but he knew equally well that in the
Indian-haunted wilderness time was perhaps the most difficult of all
things to obtain.
No uneasiness showed in his manner. Now the lad, born to be a king of the
wilderness, endowed with all the physical qualities, all the acute senses
of a great, primitive age, was seen at his best. He was of one type and
his comrade of another, but they were knitted together with threads of
steel. It had fallen to his lot to do a duty in which he could excel, and
he would shirk no detail of it.
He brought in fresh wood and piled it on the hearth. At a corner of the
cabin stood an old rain barrel half full of water. He emptied the barrel
and brought it inside. Then, by means of many trips to the little spring
with the iron pot, he filled it with fresh water. All the while he moved
soundlessly, and Paul's deep, peaceful slumber was not disturbed. He took
on for the time many of the qualities that he had learned from his Indian
captors. Every sense was alert, attuned to hear the slightest sound that
might come from the forest, to feel, in fact, any alien presence as it
drew near.
When the store of water was secure he looked at their provisions. They had
enough venison in their knapsacks to last a day or two, but he believed
that Paul would need better and tenderer food. The question, however, must
wait a while.
The day was now almost gone. Great shadows hovered over the eastern
forest, and in the west the sun glowed in its deepest red as it prepared
to go. Henry put his hand upon Paul's forehead again. The perspiration was
still coming, but the fever was now wholly gone. Then he took his rifle
and went to the door. He stood there a moment, a black figure in the red
light of the setting sun. Then he slid noiselessly into the forest. The
twilight had deepened, the red sun had set, and only a red cloud in the
sky marked its going. But Henry Ware's eyes pierced the shadows, and none
in the forest could have keener ears than his. He made a wide circle
around the cabin, and found only silence and peace. Here and there were
tracks and traces of wild animals, but they would not disturb; it was for
something else that he looked, and he rejoiced that he could not find it.
When he returned to the cabin the last fringe of the red cloud was gone
from the sky, and black darkness was sweeping down over the earth. He
secured the door, looked again to the fastenings of the window, and then
sat down before the fire, his rifle between his knees.
Paul's slumber and exhaustion alike were so deep that he would not be
likely to waken before morning, so Henry judged, and presently he took out
a little of the dried venison and ate it. He would boil some of it in the
pot in the morning for Paul's breakfast, but for himself it was good
enough as it now was. His strong white teeth closed down upon it, and a
deep feeling of satisfaction came over him. He, too, was resting from
great labors, and from a task well done. He realized now, for the first
time, how great a strain had been put upon him, both mind and body.
The night was sharp and chill, but it was very warm and comfortable in the
little cabin. Paul slept on, his breathing as regular as the ticking of a
clock, healthy color coming back into his pale face as he slept. Henry's
own eyes began to waver. A deep sense of peace and rest soothed him, heart
and brain. He had meant to watch the night through, but even he had
reached the limit of endurance. The faint moaning of the wind outside,
like the soft, sweet note of a violin, came to his ears, and lulled him to
slumber. The fire floated far away, and, still sitting in his chair with
his rifle between his knees, he slept.
Outside the darkness thickened and deepened. The forest was a solid black,
circling wall, and the cabin itself stood in deepest shadow. Inside a
fresh piece of wood caught, and the blaze burned brighter and higher. It
threw a glow across the faces of the two boys, who slept, the one lying
upon the bed and the other sitting in the chair, with the rifle between
his knees. It was a scene possible only in the great wilderness of
_Kain-tuck-ee_.
Meanwhile word was sent by unknown code through the surrounding forest to
all its inhabitants that a great and portentous event had occurred. Not
long before they had welcomed the departure of the strange intruder, who
had come and cut down the forest and built the house. Then, with the
instinct that leaped into the future, they saw the forest and themselves
claiming their own again; the clearing would soon be choked with weeds and
bushes, the trees would grow up once more, the cabin would rot and its
roof fall, and perhaps the bear or the panther would find a cozy lair
among its timbers.
Now the strange intruders had come again. The fox, creeping to the edge of
the clearing, saw with his needlelike eyes a red gleam through the chinks
of the cabin. The red gleam smote him with terror, and he slunk away. The
wolf, the rabbit, and the deer came; they, too, saw the red gleam, and
fled, with the same terror striking at their hearts. All, after the single
look, sank back into the shadows, and the forest was silent and deserted.
Paul and Henry, as they slept, were guarded by a single gleam of fire from
all enemies save human kind.
But as the night thickened there had been a whirring in the air not far
away. An hour earlier the twilight had been deepened by something that
looked like a great cloud coming before the sun. It was a cloud that moved
swiftly, and it was made of a myriad of motes, closely blended. It
resolved itself soon into a vast flock of wild pigeons, millions and
millions flying southward to escape the coming winter.
Presently they settled down upon the forest for the night, and all the
trees were filled with the chattering multitude. Often the bough bent
almost to the ground beneath the weight of birds, clustered so thick that
they could scarcely find a footing. The fox and the wolf that had looked
at the lone cabin came back now to seek, an easier prey.
Henry Ware slept until far after midnight, and then he awoke easily,
without jerk or start. The fire had burned down, and a deep bed of coals
lay on the hearth. Paul still slept, and when Henry touched him he found
that he had ceased to perspire. No trace of the fever was left. Yet he
would be very weak when he awoke, and he would need nourishing food. It
was his comrade's task to get it. Henry took his rifle and went outside.
The moon was shining now, and threw a dusky silver light over all the
forest. He might find game, and, if so, he resolved to risk a shot. The
chances were that no human being save himself would hear it. He felt
rather than saw that nothing had happened while he slept. No enemy to be
feared had come, while all his own strength and elasticity had returned to
him. Never had he felt stronger or more perfectly attuned in body and
mind.
He moved again in a circuit about the cabin, watching carefully, and now
and then looking up among the trees. Perhaps an opossum might be hanging
from a bough! But he saw nothing until he widened his circuit, and then he
ran directly into the myriads of wild pigeons. Here was food for an army,
and he quickly secured plenty of it. The danger of the rifle report was
gone, as he had nothing to do but take a stick and knock off a bough as
many of the pigeons as he wished. Then he hastened back to the cabin with
his welcome burden. Paul still slept, and it pleased Henry to give him a
surprise. He kindled the fire afresh, cleaned two of the youngest,
fattest, and tenderest of the pigeons, and began to boil them in the pot.
When the water simmered and pleasant odors arose, he was afraid that Paul
would awake, as he turned once or twice on his bed and spoke a few
incoherent words. But he continued to sleep, nevertheless, and at last the
pigeon stew was ready, throwing out a savory odor.
The day was now coming, and Henry opened the window. The forest, wet with
morning dew, was rising up into the light, and afar in the east shone the
golden glory of the sun. He drew a deep breath of the fresh, good air, and
decided to leave the window open. Then he filled the broken gourd with the
grateful stew, and, holding it in his right hand, shook Paul violently
with his left. Paul, who had now slept his fill, sat up suddenly and
opened his eyes.
"Here, Paul, open your mouth," said Henry commandingly, "and take this
fine stew. Dr. Ware has prepared it for you specially, and it is sure to
bring hack your strength and spirits. And there's plenty more of it."
Paul sniffed hungrily, and his eyes opened wider and wider.
"Why--why, Henry!" he exclaimed. "How long have I slept, and where did you
get this?"
"You've slept about twenty hours, more or less," replied Henry, laughing
with satisfaction, "and this is wild pigeon stew. Fifteen or twenty
millions roosted out there in the forest last night, and they won't miss
the dozen or so that I've taken. Here, hurry up; I'm hungry, and it's my
turn next."
Paul said no more, but, thankful enough, took the stew and ate it. Then,
by turns, they used the broken gourd and ate prodigiously, varied by
drinks from the water barrel. They had fasted long, they had undergone
great exertions, and it took much to remove the sharp edge from their
appetites. But it was done at last, and they rested content.
"Henry," said Paul, upon whose mind the fortunate advent of the wild
pigeons made a deep impression, "while we have had great mischances, it
seems to me also that we have been much favored by Providence. Our
finding of this cabin was just in time, and then came the pigeons as if
specially for us. You remember in the Bible how the Lord sent the manna in
the wilderness for the Israelites; it seems to me that He's doing the same
thing for us."
"It looks so," replied Henry reverently. "The Indians with whom I once
lived think that the Great Spirit often helps us when we need it most, and
I suppose that their Great Spirit--or Manitou, as they call Him--is just
the same as our God."
Both boys were now silent for a while. They had been reared by devout
parents. Life in the forest deepens religious belief, and it seemed to
them that there had been a special interposition in their favor.
"What are we going to do now?" asked Paul at length.
"We can't take up our journey again for a day or two," replied Henry.
"We've got to get that powder to Marlowe some time or other. Wareville
sent us to do the job, and we'll do it; but you are yet too weak, Paul, to
start again. You don't know how really weak you are. Just you get up and
walk about a little."
Paul rose and walked back and forth across the room, but in a few moments
he became dizzy and had to sit down. Then he uttered an impatient little
cry.
"You're right, Henry," he said, "and I can't help it. Find the horses and
take the powder to Marlowe by yourself. I guess I can get back to
Wareville, or come on later to Marlowe."
Henry laughed.
"You know I wouldn't dream of doing such a thing, Paul," he said.
"Besides, I don't think they need to be in any hurry at Marlowe for that
powder. We'll rest here two or three days, and then take a fresh start."
Paul said no more. It would have been a terrible blow to him to have no
further share in the enterprise, but he had forced himself nevertheless to
make the offer. Now he leaned back luxuriously, and was content to wait.
"Of course," said Henry judicially, "we run risks here. You know that,
Paul"
"Everybody who lives in Kentucky runs risks, and big ones," said Paul.
"Then we'll sit here for the present and watch the forest. I don't like to
keep still, but it's a fine country to look at, isn't it, Paul?"
The love of the wilderness was upon Henry, and his eyes glowed as he
looked at the vast surrounding forest, the circling wall of deep-toned,
vivid colors. For him, danger, if absent, did not exist, and there was
inspiration in the crisp breeze that came over a thousand miles of
untenanted woods. He sat in the doorway, the door now open, and stretched
his long legs luxuriously. He was happy; while he might be anxious to go
on with the powder, he pined for neither Wareville nor Marlowe for their
own sakes.
Paul looked at his comrade with understanding and sympathy. The forest
made its appeal to him also, but in another way; and since Henry was
content, he would be content, too. Used as he was to hardships and narrow
quarters, the little cabin would not be a bad place in which to pass two
or three days. He turned back to the fire and held out his hands before
the mellow blaze.
Henry examined the forest again, widening his circle, and saw no traces of
an enemy. He judged that they had passed either to east or west, and that
he and Paul would not be molested just yet, although he had no confidence
in their permanent security. He saw a deer, but in view of their bountiful
supply of pigeons he did not risk a shot, and returned before noon, to
find Paul rapidly regaining his strength. He cooked two more of the
pigeons in their precious iron pot, and then they rested.
They left both door and window open now, and they could see forest and
sky. Henry called attention to a slight paleness in the western heavens,
and then noted that the air felt damp.
"It will rain to-night, Paul," he said, "and it is a good thing for you,
in your weakened condition, that we have a roof."
They ate pigeon again for supper, and their wilderness appetites were too
sharp to complain of sameness. They had barred window and door, and let
the fire die down to a bed of glowing coals, and while they ate, Paul
heard the first big drops of rain strike on the board roof. Other drops
came down the chimney, fell in the coals, and hissed as they died. Paul
shivered, and then felt very good indeed in the dry little cabin.
"You were a real prophet, Henry," he said. "Here's your storm."
"Not a storm," said Henry, "but a long, cold, steady rain. Even an Indian
would not want to be out in it, and bear and panther will hunt their
holes."
The drops came faster, and then settled into a continuous pour. Paul,
after a while, opened the window and looked out. Cold, wet air struck his
face, and darkness, almost pitchy, enveloped the cabin. Moon and stars
were gone, and could not see the circling wail of the forest. The rain
beat with a low, throbbing sound on the board roof, and, with a kind of
long sigh, on the ground outside. It seemed to Paul a very cold and a very
wet rain indeed, one that would be too much for any sort of human beings,
white or red.
"I think, we're safe to-night, Henry," he said, as he closed and fastened
the window.
"Yes, to-night," replied Henry.
Paul slept a dreamless sleep, lulled by the steady pour of the rain on the
roof, and when he awoke in the morning the sun was shining brightly,
without a cloud in the sky. But the forest dripped with rain. He was
strong enough now to help in preparing the breakfast, and Henry spoke with
confidence of their departure the next morning.
The hours passed without event, but when Henry went as usual through the
forest that afternoon, he came upon a footprint. He followed it and found
two or three more, and then they were lost on rocky ground. The discovery
was full of significance to him, and he thought once of hurrying back to
the cabin, and of leaving with Paul at once. But he quickly changed his
mind. In the forest they would be without defense save their own strong
arms, while the cabin was made of stout logs. And perhaps the danger would
pass after all. Already the twilight was coming, and in the darkness his
own footprints would not be seen.
Paul was at the door when Henry returned, and he did not notice anything
unusual in his comrade's face, but Henry advised that they stay inside
now. Then he looked very carefully to the bars of the door and the window,
and Paul understood. The danger flashed instantly on his mind, but his
strong will prepared him to meet it.
"You think we are likely to be besieged?" he said.
"Yes," replied Henry.
Paul did not ask why Henry knew. It was sufficient that he did know, and
he examined his arms carefully. Then began that long period of waiting so
terrible to a lad of his type. It seemed that the hours would never pass.
The coals on the hearth were dead now, and there was no light at all in
the cabin. But his eyes grew used to the dusk, and he saw his comrade
sitting on one of the benches, one rifle across his lap and the other
near, always listening.
Paul listened, too. The night before the rain had fallen on the board roof
with a soothing sound, but now he could hear nothing, not even the wind
among the trees. He began to long for something that would break this
ominous, deadly silence, be it ever so slight--the sound of a falling nut
from a tree, or of a wild animal stirring in the undergrowth--but nothing
came. The same stillness, heavy with omens and presages, reigned in all
the forest.